


Sweet Child of Mine

by annabeth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Drug Use, Historical AU, M/M, Marking, Smoking, Smut, Underage Sex, Yuri is a prostitute, abuse of metaphor, choking (mentioned), lowkey daddy kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 11:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12555996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth/pseuds/annabeth
Summary: In his mind, the boy is Otabek's lovely creature. Often wraithlike, with flaxen hair, chapped lips, and eyes so green they look more out of fantasy than reality.





	Sweet Child of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Otabek Altin Week on Tumblr, day six, prompts "AU" and "past".
> 
> Title is from Guns 'n Roses.
> 
> Thank you to [Ashii Black](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ashiiblack) for reading it through and giving me the thumbs up!

_London, 1800s_

In his mind, the boy is Otabek's lovely creature. Often wraithlike, with flaxen hair, chapped lips, and eyes so green they look more out of fantasy than reality. When he slips over Otabek like a glove, he always gasps, as if in surprise, always like it's his first time. Otabek doesn't know how many times he's come to this whorehouse, or how many people have felt the silk inside Yuri's body, but it doesn't matter.

He doesn't care. Yuri belongs to him, body and soul, and it's not all in Otabek's head. When his lovely creature puts his palms flat on Otabek's chest and braces himself so he can ride him, his eyelids always flicker, hiding the green that so captivates Otabek.

Tonight Otabek is high as anything, soaring on an opium rush, and his lovely creature is wearing a circlet of red marks around his slender neck, striking against the white flesh, so pale like the afterimage of a lightning flash. Otabek didn't want to do it, but— _"Push me, daddy. Choke me"_ —his creature, this beautiful, ethereal creature, always gets what he wants.

Otabek stumbled on on this brothel by accident, looking for a print shop and wandering inside. He was struck at once by Yuri: heart clocked out, suddenly dead on his feet, struck by the lightning that was flowing through his body just at the sight of him.

Like taking a stray kitten by the scruff of the neck, Otabek had gone numbly up to the madame and asked, _how much for him?_

He wasn't for sale, she'd said. Just a filthy little pickpocket that hung around the establishment like a bad habit. But Otabek could read the lie in her eyes. It had to do with his age, if Otabek had to guess. The kid, scrawny but still gloriously beautiful, was probably lucky if he was fifteen summers. He was also likely kept there for certain "eclectic" tastes, and while Otabek had no general preference for such things, he had been branded to the very soul just by the look of him.

Otabek got his way. "Yuri", as he breathed against Otabek's chest, had been all that he'd advertised and then some.

It has to be the opium bringing back the nostalgia; or maybe just the image of Yuri's muscles flexing, his thighs stronger than they look, as he pushes up and sinks back down. His silk-fine hair flutters with his movements; his Adam's apple works as he swallows some moans before releasing others. Otabek picks up a cigarette, still burning, and inhales from it.

"Hurt me," the heedless little kitten whines, the lovely creature with bruises like paint on a canvas, with a body that shows every mark like a piece of expensive, living artwork. "Please, daddy."

Otabek can't break him of this habit. Telling his lovely creature that he doesn't have to put on airs for him does nothing. Telling him between breathy kisses littered across his skin that he's free to be _himself_ just makes the kitten say, _this is who I am, daddy._

It doesn't matter. Otabek pinches the cigarette between his fingers and holds it to Yuri's tender flesh, just below one rosebud pink nipple. The burn makes Yuri gasp again, and oh, that noise. Otabek pulls the burning cherry away from his skin and surges up to seal his mouth over the burn. That gasp, the one he makes every time he takes Otabek's cock, always makes his heart clench.

"I want to take you away from here," Otabek breathes against satiny skin stained with sweat. "Make you mine forever." He may be only the dissolute son of a lord, but he has _resources_. This little kitten has nothing but his lovely, well-used body.

Lovely kitten has claws, and he isn't afraid to use them, digging ragged fingernails into the soft give of Otabek's cheek. If Otabek continues in this vein, his lovely creature—his violent, testy, dangerous little kitten—won't hesitate. He'll sharpen those claws against Otabek's face until he draws blood.

It's Thursday, Otabek's day with the kitten, and he makes the most of it, drawing in the smoky air and breathing it back out against skin that glows pink from exertion. Then Yuri says those words that always make Otabek's heart break.

"Love me, daddy." He rises up, exposing a few inches of Otabek's cock to the air, and the slippery wet of his precome combined with lubricant leaves a rush of cold against his hot, hard arousal. Otabek grips those skinny hips, pulls him back down almost violently, and this time the breath is pulled from both of their lungs. His lovely creature arches backwards, raising his arm and pushing back the flaxen locks that often fall into his eyes, and his stomach is almost concave from a combination of positioning and malnourishment.

But Otabek would give him anything, anything at all, his fortune, his soul, his very life—and the beautiful fairy-like creature won't take it. Yuri will say, all breathy whispers, that he likes it here, in this whorehouse, belonging to a different man every night, most of them with sick obsessions with children.

Otabek's questioned his own motives more than once when it comes to fucking this glamorous, glittering creature, obviously much too young to be selling his body, but Otabek's love for him won't allow him to let him go.

"Harder," Yuri whines, grinding down, his ass soft and round against Otabek's thighs, his knees clamping against Otabek's hips. Otabek presses his thumbs into the softness just below protruding hipbones, anguishing the flesh there, sure to inspire more purple, red and green flowers on that pale skin.

And Otabek fucks his pelvis up almost brutally, spearing his lovely creature with his thick, rigid length. And Yuri takes it, every last inch, every last drop when Otabek breathes long and heavy and finishes; he lowers himself down one last time, that gorgeous little gasp escaping, and comes like a secret between the two of them.

"Kitten," Otabek murmurs, tracing blue-green veins between bruises, as if he's connecting the dots with his fingertips. He softens his touch over the cigarette burn. Yuri's covered in those, and they're not from Otabek, not usually. His need for it to hurt, for it to leave him scarred inside and out, is a naked length of longing between them, and Otabek kisses the parts of Yuri he can reach. "Kitten." He repeats the pet name, writes it on his lovely creature's skin with his lips. His.

"Don't leave yet," the kitten begs, and Otabek lifts his head. He studies the phantom in front of him, so far gone away that Otabek sometimes wonders if he ever actually reaches him, if their skin ever touches, if any of this is real. He's red around the neck, and blistered cherries beneath his nipple, and black, blue, and green swathing his torso. His is a rainbow of colors, and Otabek doesn't know which ones are his, and which are some faceless man who he'd like to kill.

Someday he will; someday Otabek will snap and carry his lovely creature out of here, the ribbons in his hair streaming behind him, and then he'll come back, and he'll fuck up every single person who ever took advantage of his Yuri. Kill them all. Break their spirits and their bodies and take a pound of flesh for every bruise. And then he'll get high as anything and fuck his lovely creature in a sunny meadow somewhere on his father's estate, watching the sunshine gild that which is already gilded, and splash yellow onto that pale canvas until all that's left is white, white skin, with naught a scratch or bruise.

But Otabek knows the truth; he's cynical and jaded. He knows that someday never comes.

But his precious little kitten, this lovely spitting-with-anger creature, always comes apart in his arms just the same.

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me (helm-puppet-trash) on [Tumblr](http://helm-puppet-trash.tumblr.com)!


End file.
